Part 27 (2/2)
”Necropolis?” Maybe she needed more coffee, but she'd already had four, and her entire body was starting to vibrate.
”You know! The necropolis! 'Alas, poor Yorick.' The Graveyard scene?” Mr. Tibbs returned her blank gaze with impatience. ”Are you playing the fool, or have your brains turned into pudding?”
”The Graveyard scene. The necropolis.” Bertie nodded and did her best to look knowledgeable. ”I remember now. My apologies, it's just that I've had more than enough of bones lately.”
”Enough bones or not, you tell Hastings to keep his sticky fingers to himself!” Mr. Tibbs stomped off Stage Left.
Peaseblossom appeared. ”Bertie!”
”Yes?”
”We have a little problem,” the fairy said. ”Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are in the middle of a violent argument with the Properties Manager in regard to their daggers.”
Before she could ask, Mr. Hastings shoved a handful of paperwork under Bertie's nose.
”I will not put up with this nincomp.o.o.pery!” he proclaimed, so angry that he was purple in the face. He stood ramrod straight for once, three full inches taller than usual. ”Forms should have been filled out in triplicate, but these miscreants showed up at the Properties Department and started pulling weapons off the shelves without so much as a by-your-leave. I want them all returned immediately!”
”Mr. Hastings, I'm so sorry. I must have missed the daggers on the requisitions list. It's completely my fault.” Bertie put her hand on his arm, turning on every bit of her charm. ”Surely there is something we can do about this.”
He held himself as stiffly as a bronze temple statue. ”Nothing short of resubmitting the paperwork and giving me time to process it.”
Bertie channeled every Southern Belle that ever was; all she lacked was a parasol and hoop skirt. ”These gentlemen were just trying to help me. There's so much to be done yet, you see, and I'm starting to fret.”
His nostrils flared. ”Badinage, Bertie?”
”And persiflage,” she said. ”Your idea, remember?”
”It was, wasn't it?” The anger leaked out of him, and his shoulders resumed their usual hunched position.
”One of your better ones,” Bertie said. ”Now, what can I do to set the situation to rights?”
Mr. Hastings sorted through the papers, muttering things like ”I can fill this one out myself” and ”I don't know why we still even use this form, it's clearly recapitulatory” every so often. In the end, Bertie had to initial the pink one and sign the green.
”I'll waive the one-week waiting period,” he said as he straightened the pile. ”But don't let anyone know, or they'll all want it waived.”
Bertie nodded, not wanting to remind him that if the new production failed to impress the audience, she wouldn't be around to let the secret slip. ”Now, if you would be so kind as to rearm everyone? I can't have them pretending to stab each other with their fingers, can I?”
Mr. Hastings smiled, the first friendly expression he'd bestowed on her since the incident with Marie Antoinette's chaise. He even managed an eye twitch that might have been a wink. ”Right away, Bertie.”
”And Mr. Hastings?”
”Yes, my dear?”
”Mr. Tibbs is on the warpath about the necropolis.”
Mr. Hastings held up a sheaf of papers. ”The nerve! I have the paperwork right here for that!” He departed, muttering about signatures and inventory.
”Excuse me, dear,” Mrs. Edith said. ”I hate to trouble you with so much going on.”
”No worries, it's your turn. What's wrong with Wardrobe?” Bertie waited to hear a complaint about the Chorus Girls wanting to wear high heels or the lack of beads and bracelets for Gertrude.
Instead, Mrs. Edith lowered her voice. ”I wanted to speak with you in private for a moment.”
”What about?”
”About how you arrived here.”
The words jolted Bertie out of her caffeine-fueled stupor. ”I thought you'd told me all you knew?”
”I gave my word to the Theater Manager that I wouldn't say more.” Lines cut deep around Mrs. Edith's mouth, each word uttered as though it was a battle won. ”It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
”And now?” It hurt to breathe; with the hammering and shouting amongst the crew members, it even hurt to think.
Mrs. Edith's thin-rimmed gla.s.ses reflected the stage lights, and Bertie couldn't see her eyes. ”I realize what a mistake that was.” The Wardrobe Mistress leaned closer and lowered her voice. ”That man is not as he appears. Please be careful. He-”
”Bertie?” The Theater Manager strode down the red-carpeted aisle. He'd loosened his tie, and the top b.u.t.ton of his s.h.i.+rt was undone. ”How's the repair of The Book going?”
Bertie cleared her throat and tried to look blase. ”We're making progress.”
”Brilliant,” he said. ”I knew you could do it.”
Bertie twitched, trying to reconcile the relief in his words with the idea that he was keeping secrets from her. ”Mrs. Edith was just telling me-”
”That I'm having difficulty with Gertrude,” Mrs. Edith interrupted. ”She won't wear her new costume. In fact, she's refusing to go on in it, and I need our Director to speak with her.”
Bertie nodded slowly. ”Of course. Right away.”
The Wardrobe Mistress pointed. ”She's in the temporary Wardrobe. The costume you're looking for is in the trunk in the corner.”
Bertie made her escape, threading her way through sawdust and ladders to the silk-swathed changing area Mrs. Edith's minions had constructed in the back of the auditorium.
”Gertrude?” Bertie ducked inside the tent. ”I've come to sort out the misunderstanding about your costume. Mrs. Edith says you don't approve?”
No one answered, though dozens of servitor costumes in various stages of completion swayed gently on a metal garment rack. Bertie slipped past a padded step stool and a full-length mirror. She peered up, impressed by the swagged draperies, the cream-papered j.a.panese lanterns that illuminated the various work stations, the dress form modeling a flowing robe of darkest blue, the hatboxes stacked at regular intervals.
But Gertrude wasn't there.
Whatever are you playing at, Mrs. Edith?
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